


Sins of the Father

by allthespiceyoullwant



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, F/M, Priest Kink, Sophisticated Father Kink, explicit description of consent because that's important y'all, no soul tainting here she totally wants it, this is probably not what you think it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-09-24 18:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9778805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthespiceyoullwant/pseuds/allthespiceyoullwant
Summary: Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin; and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death.James 1:15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.  
> 1 John 1:9
> 
> Audra Mae - Forever Young

_Belfast, 1929_

The church was one of the oldest in the area, its ancient beauty unfailing, its size unmatched. The richly ornamented facade, of sandstone so white it looked almost like snow, was shining in the rays of the setting sun. A tall, graceful figure was slowly walking towards the church, seemingly lost in thought. Her long auburn hair, shimmering like brushed copper in the afternoon glow, flowed down her back in loose curls, and from time to time she raised a hand and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with delicate fingers. Her clothes were common at best, but in immaculate condition: a starched, white blouse under a simple dress of dark blue roughspun wool going down to her ankles, and black, laced heeled boots, the leather gone soft and supple from daily wear. And yet, despite the simplicity of her wardrobe, the girl had an aura of elegance surrounding her like light. Her every move seemed deliberate and smooth, as if she was swaying to a music no one but her could hear. She held her head high, her gaze fixated on the church doors, determinately coming closer with every step.

Soon the church was no longer looming on the horizon but towering over her, high and enormous. The girl took a deep breath, gathered her skirts, and confidently set a foot on the stairs leading up to the church. The sound of her heel on the white sandstone broke the silence like a gunshot. Startled, a cawing crow took flight from the bell tower. Then there was silence again. The girl took another step, ascending the stairs determinately, until she stood in front of the tall, oaken double doors, her hand resting on the brass door knocker. She took another deep breath, knocked three times, and entered the church without waiting for a reply.

The girl's name was Sansa Stark. She had come to make her confession.

The scent of incense tickled her nose, and Sansa was immediately put at ease. She loved this church. She loved the white marble basin near the entrance, filled with holy water, and she dipped her fingers in it and quickly made the sign of the cross to honor this holy place. She loved the way the sun broke through the stained glass windows and cascaded over the walls and the floor like gemstones. She loved the holy altar, and the small, plain door behind it that led to the sacristy. She loved the crucifix above it. Sansa raised her gaze and looked at the artistic depiction of God's ultimate sacrifice, her Lord Jesus dying in agony to purge her sins. It was for his sake she had come here today.

Sansa had not gone to confession in a long time. The reason for this was the new priest.

Sansa had first met Father Baelish when he had come to visit the orphanage where she had been living since her parents were murdered. Mother Mary Angela, the kind, elderly nun overseeing the institution, had introduced him with a beaming face. “Girls, meet Father Baelish!” A wide smile spread on her lips. “He will be our new priest, and it is thanks to his dedication and devotion that all our home has the continuous support of its benefactors. He is a good man—“

Father Baelish had interrupted her then. “Thank you, Mother Mary Angela, for these kind words.” His voice was perfectly measured, a sentimental melody to his words. He spoke loud enough to be heard by everyone, but still there was something in his voice that made Sansa lean closer, listening harder, as if there was a hidden message in his words she would overhear if she was not careful. “It is true, I spoke to many benefactors of our parish, making certain this fine establishment will remain open. But I did not come here today for your praise. I came here to meet you. In God's words, I came here as your shepherd, and now I want to meet my flock. I heard some of you girls are even considering taking the veil once you are of age? A fine choice.”

“These girls are the pride of our house,” Mother Mary Angela had chimed it. “Come, step forward. Let the Father look at your face.”

Sansa had taken a step forward, together with five other girls. She had not grown up wanting to become a nun, but everything had changed after the murder of her parents. She had been left with nothing, her parents' house plundered by corrupt state officials, her former high-class education no longer paid for. She had come to the orphanage as a beggar, and they had taken her in. Since then she had experienced God's grace and guidance in more ways than she could count, and now she was certain she wanted to dedicate her life serving the Lord.

Father Baelish approached the six aspiring nuns with a warm smile and open arms. “May the Lord bless you.” Then he turned to her. “What is your name, child?”

His eyes were grey-green, like two pools of moss. A silver streak ran through his immaculately coiffed hair, of a brown so dark it looked almost black. The hint of a smile flashed over his lips. And there was something else about him, something Sansa could not name. It made her feel so strange inside, warm and cold at the same time, and left her heart beating slightly faster. She could feel herself blushing under his watchful eyes. It was a most unsettling feeling. “My name is Sansa Stark.”

He smiled again, somehow sadly, and took up a strand of her long, auburn hair. “You remind me of a girl I once knew,” he whispered softly. His fingers brushed against her cheek as he let them run through her hair. Quite abruptly he turned and walked away, and left Sansa standing there as if in a haze, trying to steady her breathing and feeling uneasy in her very core.

From that moment on, Father Baelish was a part of Sansa's life, as much as she detested it. She saw him every Sunday at church, listening to his sermon quietly, more often than not baffled and concerned by his modern, open-minded interpretation of the scripture. Why everyone seemed to agree with Father Baelish, and much more, seemed to  _like_ him, Sansa could not have said. Even after seven months, her heart still beat faster when she knelt in front of him to receive the Holy Communion, and a shudder crept down her spine when his finger accidentally brushed her lip. It was deeply unnerving and unwelcome.

So Sansa had decided to avoid Father Baelish as much as she possibly could, leaving mass each Sunday before talking to him, and not going to confession for as long as she dared. But now she could not defer it any longer. After seven months, her soul ached for absolution, to be cleansed of her sins. Sansa let her gaze wander through the church one last time, soaking up the presence of the Holy Spirit to lend her guidance during her confession. Then she quietly slid into the confessional and knelt, holding her breath, waiting to hear his voice. “Welcome, my child.”

Sansa shuddered. Seeing Father Baelish once a week was unsettling enough. Kneeling in front of him in the confessional was agitating. She could barely make out his face behind the screen, and she did not know if she should be relieved or perturbed by that. She made the sign of the cross. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven months, one week, and two days since my last confession.”

“Miss Stark.” He recognized her voice immediately, his words warm and soft. “Yes. I have been waiting for you for so long.”

A shudder crept down Sansa's spine as soon as he mentioned her name. Granted, she had not made her confession to many different priests in her young life, but she was sure Father Baelish's remarks had not been in accordance with Catechism. She quickly pushed the thought aside.

“Tell me, child,” the priest continued. “What brings you here today?”

She thought the answer was fairly obvious. Or was he tricking her? “I... I have sins to confess.”

“I have sins to confess, _Father_ ,” he gently corrected her. “Oh, that much I know, my child. My question is... Why are you coming today, after seven months of silence?”

_Because I could not bring myself to talk to you sooner_ , she wanted to respond, but she swallowed her words. “Doing evil is an abomination in the eyes of the Lord,” she answered instead. “I fear the loss of heaven and the fires of hell. So I refrain from sinning.”

“And now you have slipped.” His voice sounded almost amused.

“I am an imperfect person,” replied Sansa defensively.

The priest chuckled. “Of that, I am not sure.”

Sansa did not know what to respond to that. So she knelt in uncomfortable silence, a silent prayer on her lips. She could not have said how long she had been kneeling there before his voice broke the silence. It could have been hours. “Let me hear your sins, then,” he softly commanded. “Have you committed any mortal sins, my child?”

“No,” Sansa replied firmly, thankful for the change of pace. Finally she was in known territory again, finally she knew what Father Baelish would ask and how she would respond. After the unsettling minutes that lay behind, she was deeply grateful for that.

“No, _Father_ ,” he corrected her again, his voice reverberating with the smile that must have been undoubtedly on his lips, hidden behind the screen. He seemed to enjoy taking her confession. “And have you committed any venial sins, child?”

“Yes, F—Father,” Sansa answered, the second word stuck in her throat. She did not know why she could barely bring herself to address Father Baelish with his title. Somehow it seemed wrong. Unholy.

“Tell me of them, my child.” The priest's voice was soft as velvet.

“I bore false witness,” Sansa confessed. “Two times.” There had been no harm in the lies, Sansa knew, but they had stained her soul all the same. Two times Sansa had told Mother Mary Angela she had enjoyed Father Baelish's sermon, although she had not. The guilt of her lie had lain heavy on Sansa's soul.

“Did you do so with the intention of hurting someone?” asked the priest.

“No, Father,” Sansa answered, this time without hesitating. The word left a bilious taste in her mouth. “The lies were kindly meant.”

“Then your sins are venial indeed,” the priest assessed. “Do you have anything else to confess, my child?”

“No, Father,” Sansa answered again.

“Seven months, one week, and two days,” Father Baelish repeated, “and this is all you have to confess?”

Sansa nodded, reassuring herself. “I told you. I refrain from sinning.”

The priest chuckled. “What a shame.”

Once again, Sansa did not know what to respond to that. After all, not sinning was a good thing. It paved her way to heaven. And yet Father Baelish . . . did he think her a liar? If so, he could not be more mistaken. Sansa would never withhold her sins in confession. How else should she grow spiritually? She was just about to justify herself when he spoke again. “For your penance, two Hail Marys will suffice, my child. Would you like to make an act of contrition?”

“Yes, Father.” Sansa put her hands together in prayer. “My God, I regret my sins with all my heart, for they have offended you greatly. See the remorse in my soul, oh Lord, and forgive me my sins. In the name of my savior, Jesus Christ, who died for my sins and the sins of all mankind, oh God, have mercy. Amen.”

“May God give you pardon and peace,” replied Father Baelish. “I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

And as soon as he spoke the words, Sansa felt God's mercy wash over her and cleanse her of her sins, and her soul was pure again, and her heart rejoiced. She was jubilant. “Amen,” she echoed breathlessly, her heart pounding in her chest. Oh, she had almost forgotten how wonderful this felt! She had let her feelings against Father Baelish stand between her and the Lord's grace for too long now. It was time she looked past it. She did not have to become friends with Father Baelish, after all—all that mattered was that he guided her spiritually, and how could he do that if she did not let him?

“God has forgiven your sins. Go in peace, my child.” Father Baelish's voice still had so much warmth to it.

Sansa smiled. “Thank you, Father,” she whispered. “Thanks be to God.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The eyes of the LORD are in every place, beholding the evil and the good.  
> Proverbs 15:3
> 
> alt-J – Warm Foothills

Sansa had thought of her confession countless times in the past days, but it had always been those same two lines that crept back into her mind, no matter how hard she tried to avoid them.

_I refrain from sinning._

_What a shame._

She still could not puzzle out their meaning. The uncertainty left her feeling anxious. After three days she came to the conclusion that she must have misunderstood the priest. He had been speaking in a very low voice, after all. His words had drifted through the confined confessional like a sultry mist, lulling Sansa in blissful absolution. A part of her was almost suspicious how much she had enjoyed her confession, but Sansa was sure there was no odd reason for this. She had simply forgotten how wonderful if felt to be absolved from her sins. Even now, she could not remember feeling just as jubilant after confessing to Father Baelish's predecessor. She would just have to get used to confession again. Next time, she would not feel so strange afterwards.

Soon Sunday came, and with it mass. Sansa walked to church with the other orphaned girls, her closest friends and confidants, dressed in their finest attire. They slid into their usual church pew. Mass would be utterly sobering, Sansa was sure. She had never found much to agree with in Father Baelish's preachings. As he ascended the steps to the pulpit, Sansa steeled herself for another fruitless sermon.

“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge,” Father Baelish began to recite, “but fools despise wisdom and instruction.” He let his gaze roam over the parish, and suddenly his eyes found hers. They were cold, scrutinizing. Fixating on her. Sansa stared back, aghast. She did _not_ despise wisdom and instruction! Did Father Baelish truly think that? Why else should he have searched her out? Her mind began racing. Was it because of her confession the other day? Had she said something wrong? She could feel the blush creep up her neck. His eyes were still on her. It made her feel almost unbearably uncomfortable. She remembered her thoughts. _He does not have to become your friend_ , Sansa reminded herself. _It does not matter what he thinks of you. All that matters is that he guides you._ Although Sansa was not sure how much she would be able to put her faith in Father Baelish now, if he could make her feel so bewildered with one look... Sansa focused on her breathing. _In. Out. In. Out._ Maybe this would slow the heart beating wildly in her chest—

and just as suddenly as he had fixated on her, Father Baelish released Sansa from his gaze and turned back to his notes. Sansa was left breathless, desperately and futilely trying to focus on the priest's words. She could still feel the blood rushing through her veins, far swifter than ever before in church. She shuddered with unease. There was something strange about Father Baelish. Strange, and egregious. She had never felt this curious heat radiating through her body in church . . . or anywhere else, for that matter. Father Baelish was truly shameless, to make her feel these things. And just when she had decided to accept his spiritual guidance! She would certainly be guarded around him again now, that much was certain. It was a pity.

That night in bed Sansa could still feel his eyes on her. The memory of it made her shiver. She had never been stared at like this before, so indecently long, and with such pure intensity.  _That could not have been normal_ . The thought came suddenly, but then it was impossible to ignore. Sansa had never seen Father Baelish look at anyone like this before. Not during Holy Mass. She had never seen  _anyone_ look at anyone like this before. Maybe once, now that she thought of it, a few years ago, at the theater. She had seen Romeo and Juliet with her parents, and she still faintly remembered how the actor playing Count Paris had fixated on Juliet in every scene. But that had not been real, she reminded herself. It had been a play, and Count Paris had not  _truly_ stared at Juliet; the actor had only pretended to stare. Only today Father Baelish  _had_ stared. It had not been a play, and he had not pretended.

As soon as the thoughts crossed her mind, Sansa felt ashamed. Oh, what was she thinking? To accuse the priest of this? He was a holy man, a man of god. He would never stare at her like this! She must have imagined it. And she must have imagined the heat radiating through her body, too... She was still so confused by her confession. That must have been it. She would go to bed now, and sleep, and in the morning she would have forgotten all about it.

In her dreams Sansa was back at the theater, only this time she was not a spectator but an actress. She was Juliet, dressed in swirling robes of fine brocade, and she played with a fervor as if her life depended on it, and the audience clung to her every word. Father Baelish was there, too, in the role of Count Paris. Sansa could feel his gaze on her in every scene they shared, and with every passing moment she felt hotter and hotter. When her parents announced Juliet's betrothal to Count Paris, Sansa rejoiced and flung herself into his arms, Romeo long forgotten. And Sansa dreamed that Count Paris kissed her, passionately and fiery and possessively, and she sunk into his kiss and gave herself to him, and—

Sansa awoke with a gasp, her limbs hopelessly entangled in the sheet, trembling all over. Faint sweat covered her body. Her dream was still much too present in her mind, and she frantically tried to push the memory aside.  _It was just a dream. It did not mean anything_ . She lay still in her bed for a while, listening to the other girls' steady breathing. Sansa shared this room with eight girls, and they were all sound asleep. She wondered if Father Baelish was asleep now, too. He had worn such a nice robe today at church, with an intricately embroidered shawl. What clothes would he be wearing now? Or—the thought made Sansa's heart beat faster—was he perhaps sleeping naked? It was not too cold outside... She imagined him sleeping peacefully in his bed, the moon casting a bright shadow on his body. He would have untangled himself from the sheet in his sleep, and now it would barely reach up to his waist, leaving his chest bare. If she closed her eyes she could almost see his chest raising and lowering with every breath he drew. His chest hair would shimmer almost silver in the moonlight, warm and soft. Sansa wondered how it would feel to run her hands through it. She would be gentle and tender, and he would not wake up. His lips would be slightly parted, on his face an expression of deep ease, and under her touch he would let out a soft, deep moan...

Suddenly she was feeling so warm again, just like she had this morning during mass. And as she lay there, still, in the darkness, she realized that the heat was not merely in her, but pulsating through her, almost in waves, building up and pulling back and building up again. Each wave was more mighty than the last, and Sansa focused and tried to determine where the waves came from. She felt the waves in her chest, where her heart was beating faster. She felt them in her stomach, where her tummy was fluttering madly. And she felt them— _oh, Lord, please. No._ This could not be. This could not possibly be what she thought it was. There had to be another explanation... But try as she might, she found none. The thought was scary and exciting at the same time.

_You are just confused_ , she told herself quickly.  _The confession, and his stare, and that dream... It just has been a bit much._ She quietly sat up, lit the candle on her nightstand, and opened her bible. This would help her. This had always helped her. Sansa tried to lose herself in the scripture, in the stories of Joseph and Ruth and Job, but she found no distraction. The words seemed to vanish in front of her. All she could focus on was the fire within her, and how warm and wet she felt between her thighs. She knelt in front of her bed and asked the Lord for relief, but to no avail. And as the first rays of the morning sun stole into the room, Sansa realized she had not withstood temptation. Deeply ashamed she went to bed again and sunk into a dreamless sleep.

Three days later she found herself in front of the church again, her heart beating in her chest. Sansa had tried telling herself it had all been a dream, or that she had just had a fever, as miraculously and quickly fading as it had appeared. But she knew that was false. And she had to confess the truth. Maybe, once she had been absolved from her sins, she could finally put this matter behind her, and have a pure relationship to the Lord again.

The confessional awaited her, menacing and stranger than she had ever known it. With sweaty palms, her body shivering, her heart pounding in her chest, she slid inside and knelt. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Her voice was trembling.

“Welcome, my child,” Father Baelish murmured, and as soon as she heard his voice Sansa could feel a wave of heat washing through her chest. It left her almost in tears. She did not _want_ this, she wanted to be a good, girl, pure and holy in the eyes of the Lord. And yet all she could think of now was how hot and wet she had been on that fateful night, and how much she yearned to feel it again. She choked back a sob and focused on the priests question. “Have you committed any mortal sins, my child?”

“Yes, Father” she forced herself to whisper, and she hated how smoothly the second word now dripped from her tongue, and how much it excited her.

“Tell me of them,” the priest commanded softly.

Sansa steeled herself. “I... I had impure thoughts, Father,” she confessed, and she could feel tears pooling in her eyes. Her voice was broken and quiet, ridden with guilt. He heard her all the same. “Of what nature, my child?”

Sansa had thought about what she would say, had rehearsed every word to perfection. She could not allow herself to slip. She did not intend to hold back any truths from the priest, but she deeply wanted to avoid telling him more than she absolutely had to. She hesitantly whispered her carefully chosen words. “I had thoughts of lust.”

Her words were followed by silence. Sansa was fully alert, intently listening to any sound that might come from the other side of the screen. But it was all quiet. If Sansa listened closely, she could hear Father Baelish's breathing, deep and steady, as if he was not perturbed by her confession in the slightest. After what seemed like a small eternity, he cleared his throat. “And do you have anything more to confess?”

“No, Father,” Sansa immediately responded, glad she had not slipped during confession. The tears were still glistening in her eyes, and she inhaled sharply to win back control. _The worst is past now._

“Hush, child,” Father Baelish whispered through the screen. “Do not be ashamed.” His voice was deep and sincere, the words consoling her more than she could have said. Suddenly she realized her entire body had been clenched. With a deep breath she allowed herself to relax. She could feel Father Baelish's presence with every fiber of her being, despite the screen separating them. It was bliss. It was agony.

He gave her a penance, and she made the act of contrition. He absolved her from her sins, and she thanked him and praised God and made the sign of the cross. And all the while her body was trembling, and her heart was beating madly in her chest, and when she left the confessional she was breathless. From what, she could not say. But she wanted it to end.

So she walked down the church aisle, knelt in front of the altar, and closed her eyes. “Lord, hear my prayer,” she whispered. “I am calling you in my hour of need. Do not lead me into temptation, for I am weak. Please, lead me on the path of righteousness, and I will praise your name in all eternity. Please, oh Lord...”

A hand gently stroked her hair. Sansa's eyes flew open. Father Baelish was standing before her, a warm smile on his lips. “You have such troubles, my child,” he told her compassionately. “Why?”

“I do not know,” Sansa admitted, still on her knees. “I feel as if God has forsaken me... I have called him, but he has not answered.”

Father Baelish gently took her hand and pulled her up. Standing, she was almost as tall as he was. He tenderly took her face in his hands and let his thumb trace her cheekbone. “Sometimes the Lord answers, and we are too busy to hear him.” His eyes locked in hers and he looked at her, much like he had during mass. Sansa could feel her cheeks redden. She quickly lowered her eyes. His lips looked so soft, and they were slightly parted, too, just like they had been in her dream... Ashamed, she lower her gaze further, and focused on the beard stubble on his chin. Here and there it had already turned to grey. She wondered if his stubble would feel rough under her fingertips...

The priest's words brought her back to reality before her thoughts could bemire her further. “Are you longing for the Lord's counsel, my child?”

Sansa merely nodded, too afraid to speak.

“Would you like me to counsel you, then? I am only a man, I admit.” His voice had a whimsical tone to it. “But I would not want you to stray, my little lamb.” He gently tucked one auburn lock behind her ear. “It would be my pleasure to instruct you in the ways of the Lord.”

Her first impulse was to say no, but then she remembered her prayer, and what he had told her afterwards. Maybe this  _was_ the Lord's answer. Maybe Father Baelish  _would_ lead her on the path of righteousness again. So she nodded slowly. “It will be my pleasure to receive your instructions, Father.”

His lips gave way to a sly smirk. “Oh, I will make certain of that.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.  
> Luke 5:32
> 
> Kaleo – Way Down We Go

It was quiet in Father Baelish's study. The sound of footsteps was muffled by the elegant carpet on the floor. Three windows, reaching almost from floor to ceiling, gave view to the old churchyard, now a beautiful garden planted with countless flowers with abandon and surrounded by a dense, thick yew hedge. An old, mighty linden stood forlorn, surrounded by a rotting wooden bench. In front of the window Father's Baelish's massive cedar wood desk was in perfect order, books and papers neatly organized on top of it. Across the room a fire was crackling in the fireplace. The rest of the walls were covered in high, wooden shelves, in them old leather-bound books that filled the air with their own, ancient scent.

Sansa felt at ease at once. The Father's counsel would be just what she needed, she was sure of it. She  _wanted_ to be good. He would help her achieve it. She sat down in one of the inviting, velvet wingback chairs in front of the fireplace, reached into her purse, and took out her bible. Then she made the sign of the cross and waited for Father Baelish to arrive, God's word clutched tightly in her lap.

He came not long after, dressed in his usual cassock, its collar shining white in the dim light. His hair, in contrast, looked jet black. His grey-green eyes were dark and deep. Sansa swallowed hard.  _Focus on his words. Follow his instructions. Be a good girl._

He stopped for half a heartbeat when he saw her sitting there, then he turned away and sat behind his desk. Lazily he gestured toward the two chairs in front of him, and Sansa quickly got up and followed his directions. These chairs were not half as comfortable, but she was thankful that his desk would be between them now, ensuring a natural distance. He watched her with a sly smile on his lips. When she sat, he quietly placed two crystal goblets in front of them and filled them with red wine, pushing one in front of her after he had poured.

“Oh,” was all Sansa could manage. “Thank you, but... I really should not.”

He studied her quietly, his eyes roaming over her face. Sansa felt his gaze on every inch of her. She felt naked despite her clothes. All she could hear was the blood rushing through her veins. Apart from that, thundering silence surrounded them. After a small eternity, he finally spoke. “How old are you, child?”

“Nineteen,” Sansa answered quickly, her throat suddenly dry. She nervously cleared it with a cough.

“Nineteen, _Father,”_ he corrected her softly, mischief glistening in his eyes. “That's not too young. You had wine before, I take it?”

“Yes,” Sansa replied, and hastily added, “Father,” before he could correct her. “I had red wine during Holy Communion.”

He smiled, and for the first time Sansa noticed that it did not reach his eyes. “It is an acquired taste, to be sure,” he admitted. “But then again... so many things in life are. Come, drink, my child. You can have one glass, nothing will happen to you. I promise.”

Suddenly curious, Sansa reached for the glass in front of her. The wine shimmered like rubies in the flickering light of the fire. When she lifted the cup, thousands of scents filled her nose, intoxicating her even before her first sip. She let the scents wash over her, whispering to her of mysterious places in strange lands. Then she put the cup on her lips and drank.

It  _was_ an acquired taste, Father Baelish had been right. But as the wine slowly ran down her neck and warmed her from the inside, her throat burning, Sansa knew that she could grow to like it. She took another sip, and this time the wine had begun to taste different, richer somehow, as if there was an abundance of flavors in just a single drop. She could not help but smile to herself.

Father Baelish chuckled. “Sansa . . . I had never thought you were so eager.”

It was the first time he had addressed her with her first name. Sansa felt herself blush, but she dared herself to lift her head and look into his eyes. They were pitch black. She held his gaze. “I am an eager student,” she said boldly, not knowing where her sudden spirit had come from.

The priest smirked. “Much to my benefit, I am sure.” He took a sip of wine himself. “But you came here for guidance, did you not?”

“I did.” Sansa put the glass of wine down and pushed it from her, suddenly ashamed. What had gotten into her? To—to _tease_ Father Baelish like that? A man of god, no less! She exhaled in annoyance. “Forgive me for my jest,” she asked the priest. “I did not come here to waste your time with empty drolleries.”

“You could never waste my time, Sansa.” Father Baelish's voice was sincere. “But I made you a promise. You wanted instruction, and that is what you shall receive. Tell me of your troubles, child.”

Sansa clutched the bible in her lap again. “I fear I am losing the path of righteousness, Father,” she admitted, her gaze lowered. “I try so hard to be devout, but temptations await me in the dark.”  _And not just there_ , she silently added.

The priest took another sip of wine before he answered. “Have you given into these temptations, child?”

“I... I do not know, Father,” Sansa replied honestly. Had she given into temptation? Yes, she had thought of Father Baelish, thought of him a lot. But she had always stopped herself before it became too sinful. She had tried so hard to be a good girl. And maybe, she thought to herself, maybe her thoughts were not so bad after all. Was is not _good_ to have temptations, so she could resist them? Had not Jesus himself been tempted by the devil? Would it not make her grow in faith? Was it not written in the bible that to endure temptation meant to be blessed, to receive the crown of life, which the Lord hath promised to them that love him? She looked at the priest. “I do not believe so, Father.”

“Then why are you here, child?”

Instinctively Sansa straightened her back. “I have not given into temptation, but that does not mean I may not do so. I want to make sure that does not happen.”

The priest chuckled. “Such a good girl.”

“I try,” replied Sansa, unsure if he was laughing at her.

For the longest time there was silence between them. Sansa avoided Father Baelish's gaze. Instead she reached for her glass again, letting the wine swirl and slash against the crystal walls. She could hear Father Baelish's steady breathing from the other side of his desk, but she did not look at him. When he still had not spoken, she took a sip of wine, and then another one, until her glass was empty. That was when she looked up at him.

His eyes were resting on her, following her every move. Sansa smiled nervously. With every passing moment, the silence between them became louder. With every breath, Sansa grew a little more uncomfortable. Why had she agreed to come here? And why had he offered? So far he had not given her any kind of counsel. She would have learned more from reading the bible. And still . . . she was glad she was here. She had not an inkling why.

“Sometimes,” Father Baelish suddenly said, “giving into temptation can be holier than resisting it.”

Sansa stared at him in shock, disbelief written on her face. How could he have said that? Did he not know what God said about temptations? And yet Father Baelish _belittled_ them like this? She reached for her glass of wine to buy herself some time before she could respond, and realized it was empty. Her eyes darted through the room, desperately trying to find something she could focus on, something that was not Father Baelish and his beautiful, tempting face. She found her bible, and opened it. “Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation,” she recited. “The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

The priest chuckled and walked around his desk until he was standing in front of her. Sansa looked up at him from her chair. He smirked daringly. She hesitantly smiled back at him. Father Baelish gently took the bible from her lap and put it on his desk. He offered her his hand, she took it, and he slowly pulled her up to him. Sansa held her breath. He had never been so close to her before. No man had ever been so close to her before. Because that was what he was, Sansa realized suddenly. He was a priest, and a scholar, and a teacher. But above it all, he was a man. And he was standing closer to her than any man ever had before. She could make out every single one of the fine lines around his eyes that gave away his age. She could count every single eyelash. He had beautiful eyelashes. Father Baelish gently took her face in his hands, just as he had when he had first offered her his counsel. Sansa began to tremble under his hands. She felt heat radiating through her body again, more ardently than ever before.

“Close your eyes.” His voice was soft, but the command brooked no argument. Sansa obeyed. She felt him lean in and, startled, grasped her skirts to steady herself for what was to come. His lips brushed the tender skin near her left brow. The kiss he planted on it was soft as a feather. Sansa did not dare move, afraid the moment would dissolve if she moved too quickly. He kissed her right brow, too, even gentler than before, his lips a soft promise. She thought that would be the death of her. She felt him pull back again, but she still stood there with her eyes closed, in perfect silence, trying to stretch the moment to eternity.

“Your spirit indeed is willing, my child,” she heard him murmur. “Your flesh is willing, too.”

She opened her eyes again, staring at him out of wondering eyes, bliss still singing inside her. “Father?” Her voice was trembling with lust, and she loved the sound. “I do not understand—“

He smiled warmly, perfectly composed, as if nothing extraordinary had happened. “You will, my child,” he assured her. “You will.”

That night, Sansa did not even try to sleep. She could still feel his kiss burn on her skin, and from time to time she touched her brows with her fingers, tracing where his lips had been. Her touch was so soft it almost tickled. Sansa felt her heart beat faster. She wondered if it would feel the same if Father Baelish touched her, or if the touch of his fingers would be different. Slowly she let her fingers run across her cheek and to her lips. They were parted and dry, and suddenly Sansa realized she was breathing though her mouth. She licked one of her fingertips and ran it across her lower lip. Now moist, her lip felt colder than before. Sansa let her fingers run further down her chin and over her neck, feeling her pulse racing from the memory of Father Baelish's kiss. She put a hand over her heart to feel its steady beat, fast and forceful. Without realizing what she was doing, she let her fingers trail further down, until her nail scraped over her nipple through the thin fabric of her nightgown. Startled, Sansa drew her hand back. This was sinful. She should not be doing it.

But as she lay there in the dark, she could not push the memory aside. Her nipple had felt so hard. Was that normal? Hesitantly she raised her hand again, and felt for her other nipple, this time under the fabric of her gown, just to compare. It was hard, too. _Most curious._ Sansa absently let her fingers run over it. It seemed to stiffen under her touch. Slowly, she took it between her fingers. It was a sensation unlike anything she had ever felt before. Before she could stop herself, she gave herself a light pinch . . . And sharp pain jolted through her body, and Sansa had to gasp. _That felt good._ She pinched herself again, a little harder this time. _That felt even better._ She wondered if Father Baelish had ever done this to a woman. Then she wondered if he would ever do it to her, and what it would feel like.

But just as she was giving into the mental image of Father Baelish, and his sleek fingers, and the rings he always wore, she remembered herself, and pulled her hand away. This was shameful behavior. She was being lewd. It was filthy. Sansa took a deep breath to clear her mind. She should ask the Lord for forgiveness, and go to sleep straight away. Sansa rearranged her covers, turned to her side, and closed her eyes . . . until she felt the wet spot on her sheet, near her thigh, just where she had lain mere moments ago. Sansa felt red-hot shame rise in her—and, inexplicably, curiosity. Could that really have come from her?

_It does not matter where it came from_ , she tried telling herself.  _This is sinful. Stop it, and sleep_ .

By then her hand had already found its way between her thighs. Sansa fought back a gasp. She had never known this was possible. She was so unbelievably wet. Her fingers carefully explored herself. The wetness seemed to be everywhere, on the sheet, sticking to the inside of her thighs, a smudge even on her knee. Her knickers were soaked. She slowly pushed them aside, curious and afraid of what she might find underneath it, and felt for herself under the sheet. She felt so warm, almost hot. And wet, so very wet. Oh God, had her heart ever thumped so thunderously before? She took a few short, shallow breaths, too excited to breathe regularly She had thought she would feel guiltier by now. Oh, she felt guilty, she realized with a sly smile. But it was not enough to stop herself. After all, she mused, she was not really doing it for her pleasure. She was doing it out of curiosity, and there was no harm in that, was there?

Carefully she moved her fingers again, holding her breath. She had never expected it to feel like this. Sansa had never even seen her womanhood before. There were folds, she realized in surprise. She gently pulled them apart. She was even wetter and hotter there. She exhaled sharply. Her fingers inched further. By now they were soaking wet. She carefully applied some pressure. It felt curious.  _But good_ . Her left hand was clinging to her sheets, scared and excited, and her right hand was feeling herself. She dug her nails deep into the mattress and moved her other hand around, and the—

Sansa frantically drunk in gulps of air. Her fingers had found something, and it had felt good. Deliriously good. She steeled herself, and carefully felt for it again. She thought she would shatter from her touch. Fervent heat coursed through her veins with every stroke. Finally Sansa had found out where it had been coming from, all these times she had been with Father Baelish... The thought of him made her fingers work faster. What would it be like if he did this to her? It must be even better. She imagined his hand between her thighs instead of her own, she imagined dissolving under his watchful eyes, completely giving herself to him. She imagined feeling his hot, spurting breath on her skin, perfectly keeping pace with her, as his fingers danced inside her. He would hold her in his arms, and she would frantically bury her hands in his hair, and pull him closer to her, and feel his heart beating in his chest, as furious and racing as her own. He would softly whisper her name in the dark, and with each stroke of his fingers she would let out a deep, feral moan, each one louder than the last. Endless waves of sinful pleasure washed over her. Sansa dug her left hand into the mattress, drew her knees up, her legs long trembling uncontrollably. Her heart beating more wildly with every passing second she took frenetic, short breaths of air, futilely fighting for a last bit of control, however vanishing. Every muscle in her body was tensed, every fiber of her being aflame, and Sansa forgot all else and focused on that unbearable heat building up inside her, wondering if she could ever stop toying with herself, now that she found out that it felt so good. She thought of Father Baelish again, of his naked body entwined with hers, his skin covered in faint sweat, and Sansa worked faster, and harder, until something inside her seemed to shatter. She desperately thrashed around as, suddenly, she was consumed by absolute bliss, so mighty, so overwhelming, that it took her breath away. It had been so good, so deliriously good, but now it was even better, and Sansa bucked her hips up, trying to ride this last, most exquisite wave of pleasure for as long as she could, until suddenly the touch of his fingers became unbearable, and she drew her hand back and gave herself to the moment. She was trembling all over, her legs hopelessly entangled in her sheet, her hair disheveled and messy from pushing her head into her pillow in such quiet desperation. She lay still in the dark, trying to catch her breath and slow her beating heart. The image of Father Baelish still burned in her mind. Sansa imagined him wrapping his arms around her, planting a soft kiss on her hair, and holding her until she had fallen asleep in his arms, a delirious smile on her lips.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will instruct thee and teach thee in the way which thou shalt go: I will guide thee with mine eye.  
> Psalm 32:8
> 
> Ed Sheeran – Make It Rain

She did not go to confession that week.

Sansa had wanted to go, truly. She had put on her finest clothes, and brushed her hair until it shone, and she had made her way to the church. But when she stood in front of the white, sacred building, she could not enter. She could not bemire this holy place with the filth in her soul. So she had turned around again and quietly walked back to the orphanage, asking the Lord for forgiveness.

On Sunday, however, she had no excuse. And so, with trembling limbs, Sansa had quietly slid into her usual pew, hoping no one would notice the faint blush on her neck, or how much her heart was racing while she was listening to Father Baelish's sermon.

After church he found her before she could excuse herself. “Miss Stark!” His voice sounded almost gleeful, a giddy smile on his lips. “Did you like the sermon?”

She could not look at him, or the blush in her face would betray her. “Yes, Father,” she mumbled in the direction of her shoes. “It was very instructive.” She had no idea what he had preached about.

“I rejoice to hear that,” he replied in a jovial tone before adding, “I did not see you in confession this week?”

Sansa swallowed hard and forced herself to look at him. He looked at her out of his deep, dark eyes, and suddenly Sansa remembered how the fire had danced in them during their counseling session. She quickly shooed the thought out of her mind. “I had nothing to confess,” she lied, her voice a broken whisper.

A thin smile appeared on his lips. “I am glad my guidance has come to fruition already.” She was not sure if he was mocking her. “I will see you again next week, then?” Father Baelish tenderly put his hand on her arm.

His touch felt like fire. Jolted, Sansa snapped back her arm and took a step back. “Oh. No. Thank you. Father,” she hastily stammered. “I should not. Thank you for your kind offer, but I really cannot take it.”

He studied her flustered face for a moment, his own countenance an unreadable mask. “You are troubled, my child,” he observed. “Would you not like to speak to me?”

Sansa shook her head determinately. “No, Father. It is nothing, really. I could not—“

“My counsel has not led you astray, has it?” Sansa did not know if he sounded concerned or amused.

“No,” she lied quickly.

“Then I see no reason why we should not continue.” Father Baelish smiled at her warmly. “You are so troubled, my little lamb. Please, let me help you. I am worried about you.”

Sansa could not resist him any longer. If she was honest with herself, she did not want to. So she nodded slowly. “Yes, Father. I am looking forward to your instructions.”

The second time Sansa made her way to her counseling session light rain was drizzling outside, but she did not let that stop her. She simply wrapped her cloak tighter around herself and walked faster. Tonight she sat in front of his cedar desk without having been told to. She wanted to make a good impression, after all. She was here to seek his advice and hear his counsel, nothing else. Tonight she would be a good girl. She had promised it the Lord in prayer. So why was her pulse racing again? Why were her nerves flattering worse than ever? It must be her excitement, she told herself. Tonight things would finally change. Tonight she would finally find the right path again.

The rain was still falling softly outside as he entered the study, his cassock casually opened, its white collar missing. Sansa choked back her excitement. Now, more than ever, he looked like a man. She smiled uncertainly. “Good evening, Father.”

“Good evening, my child.” This time he did not sit behind his desk, choosing instead the chair right next to her. “I am glad you have come.”

She nodded, racking her brain what she could say now. No more meaningful silences, she had promised herself. They only confused her, and that was not good. Before she could respond, however, he spoke again. “Tell me, child, what was the real reason you did not go to confession last week?”

Sansa clutched her hands in her lap. “I told you. I had nothing to confess,” she lied again.

The priest smirked. “I highly doubt that.”

Sansa lowered her gaze, daring and caution dueling inside her. _No more silences._ “There was . . . there was one thing,” she finally admitted, her voice so low it was barely audible.

He took her hand in his. “Tell me about it.” His hand was warm, and rough, and soft, all at the same time. It sent a shudder down Sansa's spine. She pulled her hand away quickly. “Not like this,” she said quietly. “Please. I . . . I want to confess it.”

He pulled his hand from her lap and stroked the stubble on his chin, thinking about her request. “I am afraid I do not have a confessional in my study, but we can make do. Would you like to kneel?”

She nodded gratefully. “Yes, please.” Kneeling was good. She knelt during confession, it was only fitting that she knelt now, too.

He quietly got up and pushed his chair to the center of the room. From one of the wingback chairs near the fireplace he took a pillow and put it on the floor in front of him. He sat down, and gestured to the pillow. “Please.”

Her heart beating wildly in her chest, Sansa walked toward him and knelt. It was so soft and comfortable, much unlike the small wooden bench in the confessional. With trembling fingers she made the sign of the cross and put her hands together in prayer. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” She looked up at him uncertainly.

Father Baelish crossed his legs and leaned slightly forward. He had his hands folded in his lap, his back straight as an arrow. His lips were slightly parted, an expression of interest and attention on his face. It was so new, seeing him. Sansa had never seen any priest during a confession before. They were usually hidden behind the screen. Seeing Father Baelish's reaction now felt strange. Somehow, everything seemed more personal. She was not sure if she liked that. His voice, soft and sultry, interrupted her thoughts. “Tell me of your sins, my child.”

Sansa took a deep breath. This was it. The moment she had dreaded and longed for since she had besmirched her soul. She nervously moved around on the pillow. Should she look at him? Where did she usually look during confession? She hesitantly lifted her face and searched for his eyes, but then lowered her gaze again. She could not look at him now. What she had done was too shameful. So she stared at her hands, folded in prayer. She was holding on so tightly her knuckles were almost white. “I had impure thoughts, Father,” she confessed quietly, her voice ridden with guilt.

His hands began trembling slightly, and Father Baelish clutched them in his lap to stop it. The rest of him was as composed as ever, his face giving away no emotion. His loss of control had taken no more than half a heartbeat, but Sansa had noticed it all the same. It sent a wave of heat through her veins. She fought it back and forced herself to take slow, steady breaths. When she had regained as much control as she could, she continued. “And I—“ Suddenly her voice abandoned her, and Sansa felt tears pooling in her eyes. Annoyed, she choked them back. She had to do this. She tried again. “I had—“ A sob broke from her throat, and Sansa had to take a deep breath to compose herself. She looked up to Father Baelish. He had leaned closer, his entire body tensed. The outline of his jaw had never been more evident than now. His teeth clenched, he listened intently. Sansa began anew, spatting the words out by sheer force of will. “I had carnal desires.”

He exhaled sharply, and his body seemed to relax for a fleeting moment before he grew tense again. “Is that all, my child?” His voice sounded flat, restrained.

Sansa nodded, ignoring the memory of her sinful explorations. She would not tell him that, she could not. She did not even know how she would put it into words. “I await penance, Father,” she whispered, defeatedly.

He did not answer. Unsure, Sansa looked up at him. His eyes were on her, his expression mesmerizing. His gaze roamed over her face, an expression of hunger and greed in his eyes. He did not even try to hide it. Sansa stared back, uncertain, afraid, but ready. She wanted his punishment. Whatever he would lay on her, she was yearning for it. She had come here to follow his instructions. Now she was longing to receive them. After a while her breathing slowed down again, her beating heart grew still. Sansa took deep, composed breaths through parted lips, her eyes still locked in his. Not much later the trembling in her hands stopped, too. A feeling of tranquility took hold of her. Still on her knees, Sansa straightened her back and pushed back her shoulders, her head high. She was ready.

Finally, his lips gave way to a smirk. He was still looking at her, _seeing_ her. It seemed as if he knew every thought of her, every desire. When he spoke, his voice was richer somehow, deep and warm and tempting. “For your penance, I believe you should be chastised.”

Sansa sucked in the heavy, sultry air in the room. A wave of heat thundered over her and buried her under it. Her mind raced. That was— Had he really—? It was impossible! She could not do that. It was outrageous! It was sinful. It was forbidden. Frenzied, Sansa searched for new denotations. It was . . . scandalous. The thought made her shiver. It was thrilling. It was exciting. And before she could stop herself, Sansa felt herself nod. “As you say, Father.”

A sly smile spread on his lips as he got up and offered her his hand. Trembling, Sansa took it. He led her to his desk and shoved some of the papers on top of it aside. His hands around her hips, he navigated her to the desk's side, until Sansa felt its sharp edge pushing in the soft, hot skin of her upper thighs. She sensed him take a step back and turned around, following him with her eyes.

“No.” His voice was dark and deep. Controlled. She turned back again and looked at the wall in front of her instead. To her right she could have made out the garden in the nightly gloom. The rain was falling heavily now, drumming against the windows in a steady, furious rhythm. The noise mingled with the sounds of the crackling fire to her left, creating an eerie atmosphere, soothing and summoning all at once. But Sansa did not let that distract her and looked straight ahead, at the wall in front of her. And he approved. “Good girl.”

She was filled with pride as he said it, a triumphant smile spreading on her lips. _I am a good girl_. The knowledge was exhilarating. “Thank you, Father,” she murmured between two hot, spurting breaths.

“Lean forward now,” he commanded softly, and Sansa obeyed. Hesitantly she put her hands on his desk to support her weight, and leaned in a bit.

“More.” His voice filled the air with music. Sansa leaned in even more. Most of her weight rested on her arms now.

“More,” he commanded again. “I want you lying on this desk, do you understand?” Slight annoyance resonated in his voice. It made Sansa feel even hotter. She nodded. “Yes, Father.” Slowly, carefully, she leaned forward, until she felt the desk's wooden surface first pressing against her stomach, then against her ribs, and then against her breasts. She turned her head to the side and rested her cheek against the wood. It felt hard, and cold. _And good._

“Did I tell you to turn your head, my little lamb?” he asked her immediately, his voice filled with annoyance and amusement at the same time. Ashamed at her slip, Sansa swallowed hard. “No, Father.” She lifted her head again and turned it back. She had to hold it upwards, or her nose would be pressed against the desk. She could see her breath condensing on the polished wood.

“Good girl,” he commended her again. “Now stretch out your arms. All the way.” She did. “Open your hands. Yes, just like that,” he instructed. “Put your palms on the desk.” Sansa obeyed. Her fingers were trembling so much they beat against the wood in a nervous, uneven rhythm. With all her might Sansa forced them to stop.

That was when he stepped behind her. Sansa could feel his knee brush against her thigh, but she did not look up. Focused, she concentrated on her breathing. _In. Out. In. Out. In Out_.

He put his hand on the small of her back and let it rest there for a moment, applying light pressure. Sansa still focused on her breathing. His touch was nice. Calming. Reassuring. She felt herself relax under him. After a while, he began to move his hand over her back, running his fingers along her spine, gently grasping her waist, tracing the outline of her shoulder blades. He ran his hand to her neck and wrapped his fingers around it, applying only the lightest pressure. With every passing second, Sansa felt new waves of lust and desire wash over her. This was so much better than anything she ever could have imagined . . . He leaned in then, his mouth so close to her ear that she could feel his breath on her skin. It was hot and spurting and in pace with her own. Sansa had to smile. “You are wearing too many clothes, Miss Stark.”

She barely nodded, not knowing if she should take her hands off the desk or not. And he did not seem to expect her to do anything, because an instant later she felt his hands on her again, this time near her ankles. He gathered the skirts of her knit dress and, in one fluent motion, pulled it over her waist. Instinctively Sansa stood up, forgetting his instructions. He did not seem to object. He pulled her dress higher and higher, and Sansa raised her arms and held her breath, waiting for the moment he would have pulled the dress over her head...

When he had, she instantly leaned forward on the desk again, her arms stretched out, palms on the surface, forcing herself to believe that this was not a dream, or her imagination, or—a thought even more frightening—that this was normal behavior in any way. Because it was not, she told herself over and over. It was special. And she was a part of it.

His hands were on her again, and now Sansa could feel his fingers on the slim stretch of naked skin above her knickers and below her brassiere. His touch was so soft and tender she almost did not feel it. Sansa daringly arched her back, pushing herself against him. She wanted his hands on her. Her skin felt aflame wherever he had touched her. Tormentingly slowly he let his fingers trail further down, until he found her waistband. He toyed with it for a small eternity, preparing her for what he would do next, as if Sansa still needed conviction. She knew what he wanted to do, and she was dying to finally feel it, to be naked before him, his eyes feasting on her. She held her breath and silently begged him to do it, wanting it so much she almost wept. He seemed in no rush, still letting his fingers run along her waistband but never further, as if he had all the time in the world. With every passing second Sansa was feeling more desperate, the moment excruciatingly stretching to eternity without bringing her relief. Finally she could not take it any longer. “Please, Father,” she whimpered. “Please.”

And he heard her plea, grabbing her waistband with swift fingers and, faster than she ever would have imagined, pulling down her knickers to her knees. They slid down her legs and crumpled around her ankles, but Sansa barely noticed it. She was frantically trying to soak up the moment, etching it in her memory for all eternity, to dwell on it for the rest of her life.

His voice broke the silence surrounding them like velvet, and it was hoarse and raw. “Seven blows will suffice, I think.” His hand moved to her buttocks and stroked her skin, pressuring down hard. Sansa could feel her blood rushing to where his hands were rubbing her. She greedily pushed herself against his touch, wanting to feel him more, feel him everywhere. She lifted her hips, dying to feel his hand between her thighs. She felt unbearably wet again. If he could just touch her there, where she had touched herself before, just for a moment, she knew she would be relieved from this greed raging inside her. But he ignored her silent cry and, instead, gently squeezed her cheek. “After all . . . it is a holy number.” Her buttocks must be flaming red now, Sansa realized. She nodded. “Yes, Father.”

“I want you to count,” he softly commanded. “Can you do that for me?”

Every muscle in her body was clenched. Shivering, she forced herself to relax. Sansa took one last, deep breath, and steadied herself. “Yes, Father.”

The first blow came out of nowhere. Sansa had to gasp and instinctively drew her arms to her chest, her hands clenched to fists. Long after his blow, the sensation still resonated inside her. It had not even hurt, she realized. It had just come so unexpected. And it had felt not at all like she had imagined it. But she had liked it. Oh God, how she had liked it. Sansa choked back a moan and whispered the first word. “One.”

“Good.” His voice was calm. “Your behavior, however...” He left the sentence unfinished, hanging in the air like a threat. “What did I tell you about your hands?”

Frantically Sansa stretched out her arms and put her palms on his desk again. “You told me to keep them like this.” Shame rose in her. This was the second time she had slipped. She hated herself for that. She could be better, she knew it. She _would_ be better. “Forgive me, Father.”

“As this is your first chastisement, there is nothing to forgive.” His words were sweet and kind. Reassuring. “If you slip again, however, there will be consequences. Do you agree with that?”

Sansa bit her lip and nodded. “Yes, Father. I will do better, I promise.”

The second blow came just as surprising as the first one. It was harder than the first one, but still mild. Sansa gasped all the same. The sheer knowledge of what he was doing was so scandalous it took her breath away. This time, she forced her hands to stay on the desk. Her palms were moist with sweat, and she determinately pressed them against the hard wood, her arms still stretched. “Two.”

“You did better now,” Father Baelish gently told her in response. “Do you want more?”

Sansa fought back her feelings of guilt. “Yes,” she croaked. She hated how true it was. She wanted more, needed more. However sinful this might be, it was nothing compared to how good it felt.

“Very well, then,” whispered the priest.

The next one came quickly, faster than Sansa had expected it, and this time the blow stung. But the pain was nothing. What tormented Sansa was how hopelessly she wanted to feel his fingers inside her. She was drowning in lust, and he was all that could save her. She wanted to cry in frustration, but she did not allow herself. “Three.” Her voice was steady now, sure. It was no longer the hesitant whisper of a frightened girl. Now it was a war cry.

He did not respond this time. His palm hailed down again, and Sansa groaned. “Four!” It was an anguished scream, singing of her greed and hunger. Sansa's skin was burning now, her cheeks twitching from his blows, and she realized that her entire body was clenched. But she loved it, loved every second of it. And she desperately wanted more. The pain was whispering to her of pleasures unimagined, of redemption found in sin. She needed to feel him, she needed more, no matter the price she had to pay. “Please, Father,” she moaned in desperation. “Harder.”

He answered with another blow, faster and harder than the ones before. Something inside her seemed to shatter as the pain ripped through her. It was sheer, blissful agony. It felt better than anything Sansa had ever experienced. She cried out. “Thank you, Father.”

He chastised her again. Sansa groaned as the sharp pain mingled with with the lust aflame within her. Tears were burning on her cheeks. Whether she cried from anguish or pleasure, she could not have said. Maybe they were the same thing. “You did not count,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice a dark menace. It sent a shudder down Sansa's spine. “Five,” she cried quickly, correcting her wrong. “Six!” The wetness between her thighs was unbearable now. Sansa could feel a thin rivulet running down her leg. She whimpered in frustration, and steeled herself for the last blow.

It came with such force that her eyes went dark for a moment. “Seven!” She was almost screaming now, every fiber of her being aflame with longing, with hunger, with unsated greed. She did not know if this was sin or absolution, whether it paved her way to heaven or hell. But she did not care. If it meant heaven, she was on the right path, a path more delicious than she had ever imagined it could be. And if this meant hell, it was a price she was willing to pay. She would follow the Father's guidance, and if he lead her to hell she would walk there with her head held high, confident that the devil would love her.

A fallen angel himself, he would see in her a kindred spirit.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.  
> Isaiah 1:18
> 
> Foxes – Devil Side

That week the confessional awaited her like an old friend. Sansa slipped into the familiar darkness, a wicked grin on her lips. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Across the screen, Father Baelish chuckled. “So you have, my child. So you have.”

Sansa could not help but smile. Had she truly ever found Father Baelish's presence unsettling? It must have been lifetimes ago. Now she knew so much better. She began. “I had impure thoughts.” The confession sounded so familiar.

But his reaction was new. “And did you entertain them?”

Sansa was stunned for a moment. A disbelieving laugh broke from her lips. And then Sansa felt something she had not felt in a long time: ambition  _Oh, Father Baelish. I can be just as sly as you, wait and see._ She moved closer to the screen, so close her nose almost touched the wood. “What if I had?” she asked him boldly.

Across the screen she heard his cassock rustle as he shifted on his seat. “You did not answer my question.”

Sansa grinned. “Neither did you.”

“As this is a confession, and you came to tell me of your sins, I am not obligated to do so,” he lectured her, an amused tone in his voice.

Sansa took no time to respond. “Is it not your obligation as a priest to aid the members of your church in all aspects of life, and answer their questions, and lead them to salvation?”

“How can I aid them, if they do not tell me of their sins?”

“By answering their questions,” Sansa shot back.

He chuckled again. “Very well, my little lamb. If you had entertained your thoughts, you would have to confess and repent. It is a great sin to entertain one's thoughts of lust.” He paused for a moment. “Nothing that could not be forgiven, though.”

“I should hope so, Father,” Sansa whispered into the darkness. “I would hate to know my soul in mortal peril.”

“So do you confess your sins, my child?” the priest asked back.

“I do,” cooed Sansa, her heart fluttering in her chest. Confession had never been so exciting. It was all or nothing now. And she chose all. “I had thoughts of lust,” she began anew. “And I entertained them. Many times.” She smirked. “But I thought of you, Father.” She breathed the last words, and they hung in the air like scarlet clouds. “Every. Single. Time.” Her pulse was racing now. Sansa had no clue what had gotten into her, but she could not stop herself. Father Baelish had awoken a beast in her. And it was raging and clamoring and could not be satisfied by anyone but him.

She heard him take a short, heavy breath. “And do you regret these sins?”

Sansa closed her eyes and felt the word on her tongue before she spoke it. It tasted rich and sweet and luscious. “No.”

He chuckled again. Sansa had never heard a sweeter sound. “Remorse is the first step to absolution,” he reminded her in a stern voice, and for a moment her heart froze.  _He condemns you. You should never have been so bold. How could you have done this?_

But then he continued. “In this case however, I believe we can make an exception. You will still have to atone for your sins, of course.”

Sansa barely nodded, forgetting that he could not see her.  _Please, Father. Chastise me again. I deserve it._

He had another idea. “A psalm, perhaps. Learn Psalm Fifty-One. I expect you to recite it during our next counseling session. You are still interested in my counsel, I take it?”

“Oh, Father,” Sansa whispered. “You have no idea how much.”

“I think I might just have,” replied the priest.

When Sansa entered Father Baelish's study for her next counseling session, the memories of their last meeting were vivid as never before. Sansa walked straight to his desk and gently put a hand on it. The wood felt cold under her touch, but it seemed to come alive, too. She let her eyes roam over the surface.  _This is where you laid, one week ago_ . The thought made her almost instantly wet. Sansa smiled to herself and sat on one of the chairs. She could still sit without problems after his chastisement. All in all, his blows must have been mild. He had not even left any bruises. Sansa told herself she was relieved about that. And yet, deep within her, a tiny part of her was disappointed. It was the most wicked thing she had ever done in her life so far. And Father Baelish had not even left a mark on her body. Were it not for her memories, it was almost as if it had never happened.

He entered at that moment, his white collar once again missing. A surge of excitement raced through her. Sansa looked up. “Good evening, Father.” It still felt wrong to address him like that, and that was why it felt so right. Sansa loved how the word sounded from her lips. Sinful. Sultry. Forbidden.

He leaned down and planted a tender kiss on her forehead. It was so exciting, and at the same time so innocent, that it took Sansa's breath away. She heard herself moan softly and bit her lip to stop it. She could not behave like a giggling schoolgirl in front of him. She was a woman grown. She had to start acting like one.

He did not seem to notice her inner turmoil. “I believe you have a psalm, my little lamb?”

She loved it when he called her that. “Yes, Father.” Sansa sat up. “Would you like me to recite it now?”

“Please, if you would be so kind.” He sat down on the chair next to her. “But where is your sense of showmanship? Come, stand up. Recite it with energy.”

A sly smile on her lips, Sansa stood up. “I am bursting with energy, I hope you'll find.” She stood in front of his desk, slightly leaning against it. “And... vigor.”

The priest grinned. “I would hope so.”

Sansa began. Father Baelish leaned forward and listened intently, his lips slightly parted, as if he was trying to keep himself from echoing her words. Focused, Sansa continued. She almost did not hear the words she spoke. They were like a string of pearls, coming out of her in a steady flow, almost on their own accord. It was her penance, she thought, but it did not feel like it. Sansa did not feel guilty for what she had done. She had known she had sinned before she came to confession. But she knew she would do it again. And she would recite the entire bible, if that was the cost. What she would not do, could not do, was stop. Her life had been good before, it truly had been. She had found joy every day, and she had thanked the lord for her blessings. She had never wanted, never strayed. She had never wondered how much more there could be. But then Father Baelish had shown her, and now she could never go back. He had promised her more than she had ever dared to imagine. And now she wanted it all. Her old life had been black and white and grey. Now there was light. Around her was scarlet and amber, verdure and azure, violet and rose, crimson and pearl. She was drowning in a sea of colors, and no matter how much there was, she wanted more.

When she finished the psalm she noticed she was out of breath, her palms moist with sweat, her pulse racing. She had barely noticed it during her recital. Father Baelish nodded slightly. “I have never heard anyone recite a psalm so...  _urgently._ ”

Sansa thought he sounded impressed at that, but she was not sure. She ran a hand through her hair to fluff it. “And is that good?” she asked in return.

The priest rose to his feet and took a step toward her. Instinctively Sansa's hands found the edge of his desk behind her and grasped it. Whatever would come now, she wanted to steady herself. He stood in front of her, so close their toes were almost touching. Sansa looked up at him and found his eyes, and he held her gaze. And for a moment, everything around them vanished. All that mattered was right in front of her. Decisively Sansa let go of the desk and put her right hand on his chest. His heart beat a steady rhythm. With her left hand she reached out for his and moved it to her own heart, beating almost twice as fast as his. His touch sent a shiver down her spine despite the layers of fabric separating their skin. His lips curled to a smile. “So eager, Miss Stark.” He moved even closer now, so close Sansa could feel his breath on her skin. She leaned in and swallowed her fear. “I told you. I am an eager student.”

His other hand moved to her hair and came to rest on the back of her head, holding her firm. “I do not recall teaching you this,” he murmured, his words a hot mist on her skin.

“Then is it not time we change that?” Sansa leaned in and softly brushed his lips with hers, just for the fracture of a second. As soon as she had she pulled back her head again, wanting to tease him, but she did not get far. With his hand still buried in her hair, Father Baelish firmly grabbed a handful and steadied her. Her eyes long closed, Sansa only felt him come nearer. She parted her lips without giving it another thought.

When he finally put his mouth on hers, it Sansa felt a surge of ecstasy rushing through her veins. It left her trembling. She had never kissed anyone before. And right here, right now, she was sure she would never want to kiss anyone else in her entire life. Because no kiss could ever be better, no kiss could ever be more special than this. Her first kiss. Her mind racing, Sansa soaked up every last detail. He was of the perfect height. Sansa had to tilt her head just the tiniest bit, enough to know that she could go on like this for hours. He held her firm, but gentle. His right hand still buried in her hair, he set the pace, dictated her every move. And Sansa let go and let him play her, to a tune more wholesome than the most beautiful symphony. She lost herself in the moment and found herself in him. He tasted of mint.

After a small eternity his hands began roaming over her body, as if he was afraid she would disappear if he did not hold her close. They left a trail of fire on her skin. They moved from her hair to her neck, his thumb closing around her throat just for a moment. It took Sansa's breath away. His hands went further, down her arms, to her back, stroking and feeling and touching her, pulling her closer, until their bodies were pressed against each other. Finally his hands moved to her waist, and Sansa was surprised when he grabbed her and lifted her up. Before she could decide to wrap her legs around him he had already put her down on his desk again, the kiss still unbroken. Sansa had not even realized she had spread her legs, but now they were wide apart, and he was between them. He pulled her closer to him, until she was sitting on the very edge of the desk, her loins pressed against his. Sansa let her hands run over his body and pushed herself closer to him, so close they were almost one. But it was not close enough. There were still layers of fabric separating them, and she hated that. She took her hands off him and felt for her skirts, gathered the hems and pulled them up, shifting on the desk so she could pull them over her waist. Her knickers must already be soaking wet. The thought made her giggle.

He broke the kiss for a second. “Here I wanted to compliment you for your initiative, and now you are laughing, by little lamb.” His hands moved to her knickers, and Sansa arched her back and lifted her waist so he could pull them off her. As soon as he had Sansa spread her legs for him. The sudden air felt cold between her thighs. She laughed again.

“Tell my why you are laughing, child,” he softly commanded, standing back between her legs and planting tender kisses on every inch of her neck.

“I don't know,” Sansa replied between two spurting breaths, and it was not a lie. She knew nothing but the fire inside her, and the desperate need to finally, after all this time, after all he had already done to her, feel his hands on her, in her. “Please, Father,” she whispered, her voice trembling with lust. “Touch me.”

His hand moved to her knee and he began drawing patterns on her skin, tormentingly slowly moving closer and closer up. Sansa thought she would go mad before he touched her. She whimpered in frustration and grabbed his cassock, pulling him closer. “Please...”

He smirked. “Haste not, my love.”

Sansa almost cried. This was sheer torture. His hand still hours away, she let herself fall back until she was lying on his desk, her hands raised above her head and desperately clawing to its edge, steeling herself for his touch, wondering if it would ever come. She pulled her skirts as far up as she could, baring herself to him. He barely seemed to notice it. That was the most frustrating part. Here she was, naked before him, wanton and willing and wet, and he was still perfectly restrained, seemingly unimpressed, as if he had all the time in the world. It drove Sansa furious. “Father, please...” she whimpered again. “Please...”

And this time he heard her. His fingers trailed the last inches in a heartbeat, and then, finally, Sansa felt his touch between her legs. She cried out in relief and thrust her hips up, pressing herself against his hand. His fingers explored her expertly, finding the perfect pace. It was even better than Sansa had imagined it would be. With every stroke of his she thought she would shatter. She was so close to the edge, but he never let her cross it, slowing down and speeding up and slowing down again in an unpredictable rhythm, demanding all her focus. And Sansa completely gave herself to him, spiraling deeper and deeper into worlds of unknown pleasures. Soon she was trembling all over, unbearable heat cursing through her veins like molten gold. She frantically thrashed on his desk, coming closer and closer to that feeling of absolute bliss, until finally—

he pulled his hand away, and Sansa groaned in frustration. “Why did you stop?” she whispered, trying to catch her breath, forcing herself to stop trembling and look at him. He was just pulling his cassock over his head. Sansa realized she had never seen his chest before. When she did, she could not hold back a shocked gasp. A thin, long scar ran across his entire chest, from navel to collarbone, shimmering pink in the candle light. Sansa's eyes widened in shock. She could barely believe he had survived the injury. “What happened—“ she began, but he just shook his head. “Another time, my little lamb.”

Sansa wanted to say something, ask more questions, demand an explanation, but then he went to his knees in front of her and pulled her closer to the desk's edge again, and all she could say was a surprised “Oh!” before she felt his tongue between her legs. This truly was new. She had thought his hands felt good between her thighs, and they did, but this was better, it was hotter, it was more intense, it was more intimate. Sansa thought she would drown in lust. She had touched herself, more than a few times over the past days. But his tongue seemed to ignite in her entirely new flames, unleash monsters that must have been asleep in her her entire life. She had long forgotten this was sinful. Now she forgot his scar, and everything around her. Moaning louder and louder with every breath she lay on his desk, her head hopelessly rolling from one side to the other, bucking her hips and thinking of nothing but his tongue, and how much she loved him for it. He seemed to enjoy it almost as much as she. His tongue was everywhere at once, hungrily tasting her, knowingly finding just where it felt sweetest. “Yes...” Sansa soon moaned, the last shred of inhibition long gone. He replied with a groan, and Sansa felt the sound reverberate between her legs. “Oh God, yes...” she gasped again, and he picked up the pace. “Oh, Father... Yes...” The word was all that connected her to this world. She whimpered it, she sighed it, she cried it, over and over, trying to hold on to something other than those sweet, sweet waves of heat he sent through her entire body. “Yesyesyesyesyeeeeeesssssss...” Her legs were hopelessly dangling from his desk. With her left foot she found the handle to one of his drawers, and she thankfully put her foot on it. After half a minute she had thrashed around so much she had pushed the drawer open, her foot once again hanging in the air with nothing to hold on to. She tried sitting up and looking at him, but she had no strength left in her. She let herself fall back again, embracing each heatwave until, finally, the waves were so high, so enormous, that they came crashing over her. Sansa almost screamed as that last wave buried her under it, her entire body shaking from the sheer force of it. She frantically felt for Father Baelish's head between her legs, suddenly not strong enough to feel the touch of his tongue any longer, but he had already pulled back and gotten to his feet, a proud smile on his lips. Just for a moment he looked like an unruly boy instead of a well-composed man, and Sansa loved the sight. He leaned over her and softly put his lips on hers, as if she was sleeping and he was afraid to wake her. Still trying to catch her breath, to somehow come back to reality, Sansa kissed him back weakly. He had to chuckle. “You seem terribly exhausted, my child.”

“I am,” Sansa confessed, a crooked smile on her lips. “But oh god, it was worth it.” She slowly sat up, thankfully taking his outstretched hand to pull herself up. All the while he was looking at her, more warmly than he ever had before. A delirious smile on her lips, Sansa let her eyes roam through his study, this room that had begun to feel like home. After a while her gaze wandered to the drawer she had kicked open earlier.

In it was a gun.

Startled Sansa jumped off the desk, as if she would be shot if she stayed there any longer. Surprised at her sudden movement, Father Baelish followed her gaze. He reacted immediately. In one fluent move he closed the drawer, then he took her hand, puller her close, and wrapped her in his arms. “This is nothing, my sweet,” he murmured into her ears. Sansa did not recall putting her arms around him, but now she found she had. His skin was soft and hot under her touch. She let her hands run over his back, then to his sides, somehow feeling closer to him than ever. She timidly touched his scar with her fingertips, just for a second. He winced at that, but did not pull back. Sansa let her hands trail further, burying her fingers in his chest hair. It was soft and coarse and divine. She close her eyes for a moment, allowing herself to long for this man, breathing in his scent. It was heavenly.

But then she opened her eyes again and pushed him back. “Don't lie to me. Please.” The gun was not so shocking, she suddenly realized. What frightened her was his reaction to it. She looked into his face, hoping to see an explanation in his eyes. They were just as mysterious as ever. “Why do you have a gun?” she asked, her voice eerily calm.

He took a deep breath before he responded. “Sansa. This is not what you think.”

“I don't think anything,” Sansa told him. “I just want to know why you have a gun. I doubt a lot of priests have guns in their desks.”

He smiled sadly. “They probably do not, my love. I certainly know not a single one.”

“But you—“ Sansa began, and then she stopped herself as her mind began racing. _No one in this parish had ever heard of him before he became the new priest. And look at his scar. And how strange he behaved during confession. And the things he's done to you. And the gun in his desk. And his scar..._ And then a thought came into her head, and as soon as she had thought it it became impossible to ignore. She did not want to believe it, but she had no choice. One last, sad time Sansa looked at him and allowed herself to long for the man she knew as Father Baelish. Then she spoke.“You are not a real priest, are you.” Sansa already knew the answer.

He simply looked at her, his grey-green eyes all that Sansa allowed herself to believe in at that moment. “No, sweetling.”

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show my thy ways, O LORD, teach me thy paths. Lead me in thy truth and teach me: For thou art the God of my salvation; on thee do I wait all the day.  
> Psalm 25:4-5
> 
> The Brothers Bright – Blood on My Name

She did not remember how long she had stared at him that fateful night, a thousand unspoken questions on her lips. She did not remember how she had found her way home. She did not remember the millions of thoughts that had raced through her mind later and kept her awake.

All Sansa remembered was the touch of his lips on hers. How his soft, hot skin had felt under her hands. That sweet loss of all control as she had come undone from his skillful tongue. Those memories were alive in her. They had possessed all of her, her body, her mind, her soul. And they had brought with them lust. They had brought with them greed. They had brought with them everything Sansa had once so firmly believed was sin.

Now, she was not so sure.

She still wanted answers. She had sworn to herself she would never let him touch her again without knowing his secrets first. And if he did not want to share them with her, she would face the consequences, thank him for the memories, and never go back. After all, she had wanted to take the veil before. She could want it again, she was sure. She did not need any man in her life, as long as she had Lord Jesus.

She was almost certain she could believe that again, one day.

Today she entered his study at noon, the sun bright outside. It was the first time she had come here during the daytime, but that was good. There were no dangers lurking in the shadows, no secrets hiding in the moon's silvery glow. There was just sunlight, flooding his study and lighting the most reclusive corner. Sansa let her eyes wander through this room like she had so many times. In the light of day, everything looked different. Where it was not covered by elegant carpets the floor was clean, but dingy. No fire was crackling in the fireplace. The correspondence on his desk was mundane. And yet, the room still held magic. The dust of countless old, leather-bound books danced in the rays of the sun like fine mist. The golden letters embossed on the precious leather bible on the coffee table shimmered in the light like jewelry. A rosary hung on the corner of one of the shelves, each bead made of gemstones. They broke the light and threw a prism of color on the opposite wall, more beautiful than a rainbow. As much as she despised it, Sansa felt at home here, now more than ever.

This time Father Baelish sat in one of the wingback chairs after he had entered and gestured her to do the same. Reluctantly Sansa obliged. Her heart was fluttering madly. Her knees were shaking. And in her mind the memory of last night was loud and clear and colorful. She had never thought it would be so difficult to come back. Before she could give into her fear, her insecurities, she forced herself to speak. “You know why I am here.”

He was looking at her like only he could, caring and mysterious and loving at the same time. His eyes were dark and deep and yet Sansa could read nothing in them. She swallowed her doubts. It was  _good_ she had come. It was the right thing to do.

After a small eternity, filled with meaningful silences and cryptic looks, he sighed deeply. “I fear I do. But I wish I was wrong. There are so many more things we could do, Sansa.”

“Father Baelish,” Sansa interrupted. Then she remembered what she knew about him. But what else should she call him? _Mister?_ That sounded ridiculous. He may not be a priest, Sansa thought, but he could still be a Father. The thought sounded wrong and right at the same time, and very distracting. She focused again. “I can imagine what you are referring to, and I do not condone this. You have led me horribly astray in the past weeks, and I am the first to admit, I enjoyed every moment of it.” She allowed herself a smile before she continued. “But in light of the latest development, I believe we have sufficient reason for a serious discussion.”

He smiled, half sad, half amused. “Those are a lot of big words for a person as small as you, my little lamb.”

“I wanted to be certain you take me seriously,” Sansa explained.

Father Baelish shifted on his chair, his shirt softly rustling. It was only now that Sansa realized he was not wearing his usual cassock. She did not know what to think of that. “I would never not take you seriously, Sansa.” He held her gaze, his face solemn and serious. “Please believe that.”

Sansa lowered her eyes. This was too much. He was too charming, too handsome, too wonderful. But she had to be strong, she had sworn it. “I do not even know your name, “she said, defeated.

“Petyr.” His voice was soft and understanding, and so comforting. “Call me Petyr.”

“Petyr,” Sansa whispered. The word hung in the air between them like a promise. She liked the sound of it. “What are you, if you are not a priest?”

He smiled weakly, like a trapped animal accepting its fate after a desperate fight for freedom. The sight almost broke Sansa's heart. Against her better knowledge she reached out to him and put his hand in hers. He entwined his fingers in hers and squeezed her hand tight. “Thank you, sweetling.” This time, he was the one who sounded defeated. He cleared his throat and began. “Have you ever heard of the White Hand Gang?”

Sansa found that rather ridiculous. “Of course not.” She screwed up her face. “I have never heard of any gangs.”

“You have never been to New York City,” he said calmly, as if that was an explanation. “They are one of the most influential gangs in the area. Well . . . they were.”

Sansa was wary. Every fiber of her body was alert. “Why are you telling me this?”

Petyr hesitated for a moment before he spoke. “I was a member. Well, actually I was one of the leaders. But, over the years, we left our glory days behind us.”

Sansa arched her eyebrow. He sounded as if he was reminiscing about an old friend instead of... whatever that was. And yet she instinctively leaned in, listening intently.

He continued. “We made our wealth during the prohibition. It was so easy, getting rich back then.” He chuckled. “If you knew how to do it, at least. And I was particularly good. But we had rivals, and they grew stronger while we grew weaker. Soon we lost much influence and power. Many of our members were killed. It became too dangerous. And so I came back home, to Ireland. Hiding and waiting for the right time to return.”

“Huh,” was all Sansa could say to that. She was not sure if she found this exciting or terrifying. And so she asked questions. She asked about his life in New York, about his family, about his childhood. She asked about the White Hand Gang, and how he had joined them, and how he had become one of its leaders. She asked how he made a small fortune during the prohibition. She asked how he got the scar. She asked, and he answered, sometimes reluctantly, but always extensively. When she thought he had held back something she told him, and he elaborated. At times he paced the room, at times he sat. Sansa drank his every word, thankful for his honesty, concerned and thrilled and bewildered and captivated by his stories. But never frighted.

When she had no more questions to ask him except one, it was dark outside. Sansa took his hand again. “Did you ever kill someone?”

Their fingers entwined, he began stroking her hand with his thumb. “They all deserved it, to some extend or another. You do not know how that was. We had enemies, sweetling. All too often it was kill or be killed. But, to answer your question, yes. I killed someone. Three someones, in fact.”

Sansa did not pull her hand away. She had no idea why. “Did you shoot them?” She remembered the gun in his desk again, and threw a doubtful glance at the drawer.

Petyr shook his head. “Poison, poison, and a deadly fall,” he listed. “That last one was almost an accident, though.”

“Almost,” Sansa echoed, an amused tone in her voice. She had no idea where it had come from. This man was a killer, she reminded herself. Why was she not frightened? “I never would have thought that of you, Father Baelish,” she teased him.

He smiled. “I do not deserve that title, I am afraid.”

Suddenly Sansa knew what she had to do. Everything Petyr had told her was still so fresh and new and confusing, and she had no idea how she felt about it. But right now, that was not important. She stood up and pulled Petyr to his feet. She took a step closer and leaned in, until her body was pressed against his. She raised her arms and put them around his neck. “Yes, you do,” she murmured softly. “ _Father._ ” And she put her lips on his.

He was hesitant, but slowly parted his lips nevertheless. Sansa broke the kiss for a second. “It's okay,” she assured him. “I want this.” She kissed him again, and this time he responded a little more eagerly, still timid and careful, but passionate all the same. Sansa set the pace, not willing to wait for him any longer. Now she knew his secret, she told herself, now she could finally feel the touch of his hands again, the fire of his kiss. She hungrily pulled him closer and let her hands run over his body, under his shirt. When she began pulling his shirt up he immediately broke the kiss and raised his arms, helping her pull the shirt off him. It landed somewhere on the floor, but Sansa barely noticed it. Petyr turned her around, buried his nose in her hair, breathed in her scent. He spun her in his arms again, kissed her ear, and cheekbone, and her jawline, trailing further and further down her face, until he came to her neck. Breathing hot, greedy kisses on her skin he began to open the buttons of her dress, one by one. When he had finally opened the last one Sansa impatiently struggled free from her dress and, without thinking about it, took off her brassiere as well. Suddenly she realized this was the first time she had bared her breasts in front of him. The thought made her smile. A month ago, even a chaste kiss with a man would have been unthinkable . . . and now here she was. And she had no regrets. She pulled him close again, her body pressed against his, skin on skin in sinful bliss. But still his kiss was slow, uncertain, restrained. Sansa looked at him. “Why are you hesitating?” she whispered, trying to mask the disappointment in her voice with a cheerful smile.

Petyr planted a soft kiss on her forehead, innocent and fatherly. “I have told you so much now,” he reminded her. “Do you not want to think about this, my love? We do not have to do it today—”

Sansa put her hand over his mouth before he could finish the sentence. “If I think about this today, I will not want to do it tomorrow. But I want it now.”

Petyr gently grasped her wrist and puller her hand from his mouth so he could speak again. “Sansa, I am not sure—“

“Shush,” Sansa commanded. “I know what I am doing, Petyr. Trust me.”

He trusted her. Petyr gently took Sansa's face in his hands and kissed her. It was still a slow kiss, caring and cautious and captivating. But it was deeper than any kiss they had shared before. It was more honest. When Sansa parted her lips a contented sigh escaped her throat. This was the right choice, she was certain.

After what seemed like hours Petyr's hands began to move. He began by playing with her hair, and Sansa felt herself dissolve under his touch. She had asked him to trust her, and he did. But she trusted him, too, and whatever would follow, she was ready, and she wanted it. Petyr's hands trailed further. He caressed her cheeks, trailed her jawbone, followed the graceful arch of her neck. All the while his lips were on hers, and Sansa lost herself in him more and more with every second.

When his hands finally came to her breasts, Sansa's breath was already spurting, her pulse racing. Petyr gently trailed his fingertips over her soft skin, his touch so light it almost tickled, and then, after a small eternity, he cupped her left breast. It sent a shiver of lust through Sansa. His hand was warm, his fingers applied just the right amount of pressure, and her heart was beating against his palm in a fast, steady rhythm. He slightly squeezed her breast for a moment, and Sansa's gasp soon turned into a moan as he tightened his grip, just the tiniest bit. “Yes...”

Sansa had run her hands over his body, too, fast and hungry at first, slow and tenderly now. Petyr's confidence had calmed her. There was no rush. Everything seemed more deliberate now, more meaningful, more special. And that was just right . . . Because it  _was_ special.

But when Petyr's hands moved to her breasts, Sansa lost her self-control. Her left hand moved to his head and she frantically grabbed his hair, holding on to him tightly. He answered with a muffled groan that sent a wave of heat through Sansa's body. She tightened her grip and kissed him again, fiery and passionately, and he responded just as wildly, the force of his kiss resonating within her. He broke off the kiss and moved to her chin and her throat and her neck, breathing hot, fiery kisses on her skin and igniting more and more flames in her every time his lips touched her. Sansa threw back her head and let herself go. Her breath long turned to moans, she put her hands on his back and tried pulling him closer, her nails scratching over his skin when they found nothing to hold on to. He groaned again, louder this time. Emboldened Sansa dug her nails in his skin again, a little harder now, and scratched over his back once more. His next groan was even louder, deep and urgent. Sansa scratched him again, and again, clawing into his skin until she was certain she must have left red marks on his entire back, and every time she dug her nails into his skin he responded with a deep groan.

His hand still on her breast his grip grew tighter and tighter, until it almost hurt. Sansa loved the feeling. She had never dared to touch herself so roughly, with such brute force, but now she realized she wanted it, that it was better and more intense and more overwhelming, and she cried out without realizing it. “Oh God, yessssss...”

“Did you just take the Lord's name in vain, my little lamb?” he teased her, his voice coarse and raw. “That calls for chastisement, do you not think so?”

Sansa was so relieved she almost wept. “Yes, please.” Her hands moved to her knickers. One instant later she had taken them off. How long had she waited to feel his blows again? The last time seemed years ago. She was so, so ready.

“Go to the desk,” he instructed her. “You know the position.”

Sansa obliged at once. Naked except for her black leather boots she crossed the room, her heels clacking softly with every step. At his desk she took a deep breath, raised her arms, and leaned forward until she was lying on it, the cold wood hard against her soft, hot skin.

He stepped behind her and let his hands run all over her body, through her hair, over her back, to her buttocks, stroking and caressing and squeezing it until it felt as if all her blood had rushed there, the skin undoubtedly red by now. “Seven again, I think,” he decided, and Sansa nodded. “Yes, Father.”

The first blow came instantly. It was hard, and sharp pain jolted through her almost immediately. But it was just what Sansa had silently begged for. Without having been told to she began to count. “One.” Her voice was firm and sure and confident, and she loved the sound. “Thank you, Father,” she added breathlessly.

“Do you want me to be more gentle?” he asked her, the smile on his lips reverberating in his words.

Sansa did not have to think about his question. “Please, no.”

“Very well, then,” replied the priest. The second one was just as hard as the first one, and Sansa gasped in sweet bliss. She was so desperately aroused, and with every fiber of her being she was begging to feel his hands on her, in her, hopelessly waiting for him to bring her over the edge and grant her relief, but instead he chastised her, ignoring her lust, and that was even better. His blows were the only thing distracting her from the unsated greed raging inside her. The pain was the only thing that made it bearable. Sansa spoke. “Two.” 

“You're so wonderful, Sansa,” he whispered affectionately, and then his palm hailed down again. “I am so proud of you.” That was even sweeter than the pain. Sansa smiled. “Three.” First she had to count. “Thank you, Father.”

He chastised her again, and this time Sansa cried out. His blows had become all that mattered in the world, the sensation resonating in her entire body, taking hold of her and filling her with a fiery inferno. The fire cleansed her more than any prayer ever had. “Four.”

The next one came swiftly, and this time Sansa had to force her hands to stay on the desk. Staying in the position he wanted was harder than she had thought. She wanted to thrash around, to arch her back and throw back her head and welcome each blow, trying to ride each wave of ecstasy he sent jolting through her for as long as she could. But she forced herself to stay still. Not moving, the pain felt more forceful, and all Sansa could do was lie there and let it wash over her and bury her under it. And she loved that more than she could say. “Five.”

“Two more, sweetling,” he reminded her, and Sansa did not know if she was relieved or disappointed, but his next blow interrupted her thoughts. This time his chastisement would leave a mark, she was sure. That thought was almost as exciting as everything else. “Six.”

The last one was harder than the ones before, and for the first time Sansa felt tears pooling in her eyes. But they were a price she was more than willing to pay. She closed her eyes for a second and breathed through the pain dancing within her. “Seven.”

He leaned in and softly kissed her hair. “Did you enjoy this, sweetling?” he whispered into her ear, his voice caring and affectionate. Out of breath, the force of his blows still resonating inside her, Sansa nodded weakly. “Yes, I did, Father” she murmured. “Very much.”

He smiled and stroked a strand of hair out of her face. “I'm so proud of you. And you did not slip even once. Good girl.”

Despite everything Sansa still felt herself blush.”Thank you, Father.” She finally found the strength to look up at him and smiled back. He leaned in and kissed her softly. “Do you want more tonight? There is one thing we still have not done...”

All the strength that had come back to her vanished in a heartbeat. Sansa's heart beat even wilder than before, her pulse racing again. She nodded. “Yes. I want more.”

“Then stand up,” he softly commanded and pulled her upward. “Sit on the desk.” She did, but Petyr looked concerned. “You can still sit?”

“Yes,” Sansa assured him. She definitely felt his blows, but that did not matter. Nothing else mattered but what would happen next. _Finally._ She was more excited than she had ever thought she could be. Slowly, his eyes not leaving hers, Petyr opened his trousers and took them off, followed by his knickers. Sansa forced herself to look into his eyes. After a second she lost the fight. Timidly she lowered her gaze, just for a quick peek. His manhood was already erect. Something inside her made her reach out and put it in her hand. She had never thought it would feel so hard. Petyr put his hand on hers and began moving her hand, up and down. After a few strokes he took his hand away and Sansa was on her own. She continued. Up and down. Was she doing it right? Uncertainly she looked at Petyr, hoping for instructions. He had his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted. Every breath seemed to come a little faster than the one before. Sansa picked up the pace. Petyr's breathing sped up as well. She smiled. She seemed to be doing this right.

After a few minutes he opened his eyes again, a contented smile on his lips. “You are good at this, sweetling,” he whispered into her ear before feeling for her between her thighs. “And so wet already...”

“It's all for you, Father,” Sansa whispered back, and he smiled a wicked smile. “Good. Are you ready, Sansa?”

“Yes, I am,” Sansa replied, and she was. She could never want anything more than this. She spread her legs even wider and held her breath. His fingers carefully explored her for a moment before she felt the tip of his manhood between her legs. Sansa nodded. “Yes...”

In one, quick move he entered her. Startled, Sansa uttered a surprised “Oh!” It was . . . different.

“Does it hurt?” Petyr immediately asked, concern and doubts in his voice.

“A little,” Sansa admitted. “But it's fine, really.”

He kissed her softly. “I know. I'll be gentle, I promise. If you want me to stop, just tell me...”

That was the last thing Sansa wanted. “No. Please, Petyr. I want this.”

“Very well, then,” he whispered into her ear. Then he began to move, slowly and carefully.

Sansa was thankful for that. She still had to get used to this feeling. It was so new, so unknown. She concentrated on her breathing, taking long, deep breaths in pace with his moves. Petyr's eyes were constantly roaming over his face, searching for her approval, looking for the slightest hint of unease. Sansa smiled. “I'm fine,” she assured him. “Really.”

He picked up the pace a little, and everything felt entirely different then. Sansa was surprised to find out that she liked it. It did not even hurt any more, although it still was not truly  _good_ . But that would come later, she was sure. She smiled again, and Petyr smiled back, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Suddenly Sansa realized with how much restraint he must move. She raised her hand and gently cupped his face. “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me, sweetling,” he whispered in response. “I'm doing this for my enjoyment just as much as I'm doing it for yours.”

Sansa chuckled. “I know. But still.”

He picked up the pace again, and for the first time Sansa could not hold back a deep moan. This was beginning to feel nice. She moved a little closer to the desk's edge, hoping to feel him deeper inside her. He filled her perfectly. She wrapped her legs around his waist to keep him close. He responded with a muffled groan. Daring, she put her hands on his back again to feel the muscles move under his skin. His back was covered in faint sweat. It was so sinful. Sansa moaned again and gave herself to the moment, feeling Petyr in ways she had never felt him before, thinking about the bold, brave woman he had brought to life within her, and the wicked, daring woman she was becoming right now.

“Look at me,” he suddenly commanded, and Sansa realized she had closed her eyes. When, she could not say. Now she opened them again and found his gaze, his eyes dark and mesmerizing. His breath had sped up, too. She had not even noticed it. He smiled at her, but it quickly faded on his lips, an expression of deep, hungry greed taking its place. She let her gaze wander over his face and to his chest, looking at the scar in the flickering candlelight, but at once his hand was in her hair and he grabbed it and yanked her head back. “Look. at. me,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

Sansa gasped at his sudden movement. Somehow she felt even wetter than before now. “Yes, Father,” she moaned and found his gaze again. He stared at her out of narrow eyes. His gaze alone was enough to send a wave of heat through her body. Or was that something else? Suddenly it was hard to be certain. When had he begun to move with such urgency? And when had she begun to enjoy it? Sansa did not know. Her eyes locked in his, his gaze piercing her soul, she was not sure it mattered. She focused on his thrusts, each one igniting more flames in her. It had become truly good now. It had become so much better than good. She felt herself spiraling deeper and deeper under him, her body trembling more and more with each second, the fire in her burning hotter and hotter. Petyr was still looking at her with such sheer intensity that Sansa felt as if he could read her every thought. He had begun to groan with each thrust, his teeth clenched, his hand still buried in her hair and grabbing tighter and tighter until Sansa thought he would rip it out. She would not have cared if he did. She was moaning louder and louder, in pace with him, finally learning why what she was doing was so unholy and forbidden.

And then, just as she thought she never wanted this sinful dance to end, Petyr pulled out of her with one last groan and spilled his seed on her belly. In the dim light, it shimmered like pearls of the most illicit kind. Still breathing heavily he leaned in and kissed her, and Sansa clung to his lips with such fervor that she thought she would drown in his kiss. Petyr had transformed her. And she loved the new woman she had become. She had nailed her soul to the devil's altar, and she could never go back. Sansa had never felt so holy.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not: For I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine.  
> Isaiah 43:1
> 
> The Civil Wars – Devil's Backbone

She did not see him for one week after that. She did not go to confession. Not because she was not sure if he could absolve her from her sins, but because she felt she had nothing to confess. It was hard to be sure what was sin and what was not, if her transgressions felt so divine and her priest was her tempter.

But that Sunday, Sansa did not even go to mass, excusing herself with a terrible headache. She desperately needed time alone, to think. And while the other girls all listened to Father Baelish's sermon, Sansa was alone in the orphanage for the first time. She paced the room, trying to sort out her thoughts, telling herself over and over that the wisest choice would be to get out of this dangerous game as long as she still could. But no matter how much she reasoned, with how many different arguments she tried to convince herself—in the end she was always forced to admit the single truth: She did not want to. Petyr was mysterious and dangerous and criminal. But she had never felt safer than in his arms. She had never known how sweet sin could be, until he had shown her. She had never wanted anyone or anything more than she wanted him. She could not get out. At least not yet. Maybe she would be stronger one day, she told herself. Maybe in one month he would just be gone. Maybe tomorrow she would fall ill and die shortly after. Life was so full of uncertainties. And all Sansa knew with absolute certainty was that right here, right now, she wanted Petyr. She wanted him so totally and completely that nothing else truly mattered. For now she had made her choice.

She walked back to their counseling session—if she could still call it that—with confidence and pride. For once, Petyr was already waiting for her when she entered his study, sitting in one of the wingback chairs by the fire and reading a book. He looked up and smiled. “I have missed you in confession last week.”

Sansa laughed and sat down next to him. “I had nothing to confess.”

He had to chuckle. “And I was so looking forward to granting you absolution.” Before she could respond he leaned in and kissed her softly. Sansa had to bite her lower lip to stop herself from smiling.

“I noted you also did not attend mass on Sunday,” the priest continued.

“I had a lot to think about.” Sansa looked down and smoothed her skirts. She had not been sure if she should tell him about her doubts, but now she was glad the conversation had turned there naturally. She sighed deeply. “There was one question I kept asking myself over and over, and I still do not know the answer.” She looked up at him, her face solemn and sincere. “Why did you tell me everything you have told me?”

Petyr was silent for a moment, his eyes roaming over her face as they so often did. It made Sansa feel so beautiful. When he spoke, his words sent a shiver down Sansa's spine. “Because I did not want to lie to you.”

“But...” She tried to grasp the extend of the situation. Thousands of consequences flooded into her mind. It was maddening and frightening and exhilarating. She shook her head to shoo the thoughts aside. “I hold power over you now,” she reminded him. Even as she said it it sounded so bizarre. “If I told anyone...” She left the sentence unfinished. She did not know how to finish it.

Petyr smiled weakly and tilted his head slightly. “Oh, sweetling,” he whispered, his voice low and sincere. He reached out and put up a strand of her hair, letting it run through his fingers. “You have held power over me before.”

Sansa did not know what to say to that. She just sat there, lost in the moment, loving how he played with her hair, and wondering why nowhere inside her there seemed to be even the tiniest shred of remorse, or fear. His words interrupted her thoughts. “I know my secret is safe with you.”

Sansa found that rather presumptuous. Father Baelish— _Petyr,_ she reminded herself—did not even know her. “What makes you say that?” she wanted to know. “How could you possibly think you could trust me?”

He did not have to think about her question. “Because I know you, Sansa.”

“No, you don't.” She thought she sounded like a stubborn child.

“Yes, I do. And you would never reveal my secret. It excites you too much. And deep down you know you are thrilled. You don't want to be a nun, sweetling. You want the world, and you are right. The world should be yours. So you should take it, my love.”

That confused Sansa more than anything. “What do you mean—”

“You know what I mean,” he interrupted her. “I do not intend to be a priest forever. And when I leave this parish... You could either stay here, or you could come with me.” His hand moved from her hair and to her face, holding her firmly and making sure she did not lower her gaze. His thumb gently stroked her cheekbone. “It is your choice. Be sure to make the right one when the time comes.”

For the longest time Sansa just stared at him, trying to understand what had just happened. Her mind was empty except for one single thought, racing through her brain over and over, making it impossible to focus on anything else.  _Come with him come with him come with him come with him_ . Finally she pulled his hand away from her face, not strong enough to withstand his charm any more, stood up, and turned away from him, instead pretending to be interested in the books in his shelves. All the while he was quiet, his eyes undoubtedly following her every move. If she listened closely, she could faintly hear his slow breath.

“This is madness,” she finally told him. Her voice was shaking more than she would have liked. Sansa cleared her throat and continued. “You are a criminal, and a murderer, and... I do not even know what else.” Her voice was almost steady now, and she dared herself to turn around again and look at his face. “But you are a good man.” She paused for a moment, uncertain if she should continue, but the words were in her, and they had to be said. “And I hate that about you. Because you have treated me with nothing but respect, and affection, and love, and that is making it impossible for me to hate you. Even though I probably should.”

She felt so forlorn suddenly, standing there, in the middle of his study, her shoulders drooping. He was still sitting in his chair, making no attempts to get up and pull her in his arms, so she could rest her head against his shoulder and breathe in his scent. Sansa was not sure if that was kind of him, or cruel. She forced herself to stand straight and push her shoulders back, making herself seem taller and surer and more certain than she was. And still, he said nothing, as if all that mattered was in his eyes and Sansa just had to read it to know. But when she looked she found nothing.

After a while she could not bear the silence any more and continued. “I cannot possibly make a decision now, Petyr. You have to understand that.”

Finally he got up, too. In two steps he stood in front of her, his hands in her hair again, on her face, gently caressing her before planting a soft kiss on her forehead. Sansa fought back a deep moan. She could not show any signs of weakness, not now. But she closed her eyes nevertheless and allowed herself to enjoy the moment, just for a heartbeat. “I do not ask you to make a decision now, my love,” Petyr finally whispered before he sighed deeply. “I just want you to remember what I have told you. And if, one day, you have come to a conclusion, I would like to hear it. That is all I am asking.”

Trembling under his hands, Sansa felt herself nod. “Thank you, Father,” she murmured.

“There is nothing you owe me thanks for, Sansa,” he whispered back. He leaned in and kissed her, soft as a feather.

It finally woke up Sansa from her lethargy. She opened her mouth under him and welcomed his flicking tongue, she raised her hands and buried them in his hair, she pulled him closer until her body was so close that she could feel the heat radiating from his. She gave herself to the kiss, and she gave herself to him, knowing everything would be alright, finally comfortable with her uncertainties. There would come a time when she would have to make a decision, but that was far away now, and all that mattered at the moment was that she was in Petyr's arms, and that she loved it.

The next Sunday Sansa came to mass with the other girls, not wanting to miss an opportunity to see Petyr, as chaste and inconspicuous as it was. She thought he smiled at her briefly before he ascended the steps to the pulpit, but maybe she had just imagined things. Father Baelish put his notes in front of him, cleared his throat, and spoke.

“The Lord Jesus has died for our sins,” he began. “It is one of the fundamental truths of our belief. But it is not as simple as it sounds, is it?” He looked at the members of his parish, as if he was expecting someone to answer his question. “Where does sin begin? Where does it end? And what is in between? Can any man ever truly know? Can any woman?

“I look at the bible, at all the stories about all the prophets and saints, and do you know what I see? I see humans. I see men and women who have doubts, and fears, and uncertainties. I see people who make mistakes, and people who sin. And I dare say, God saw the same.

“But God looked past all the sin in the hearts of these men and women, and when he did that he saw so much more: Bravery. Integrity. Strength. He saw how truly beautiful they were, underneath their transgressions. And that was what he focused on.” He let his gaze wander through the church, looking at every member of his parish, until his eyes found Sansa, fixating on her as if she was the only person in the church that truly mattered. He did not look away as he continued his sermon. “And so today I say to you: Look at your sins, and atone, but be proud nonetheless. Because sometimes, for the most special of us, sin is not the end. It is merely the beginning.”

Sansa smiled at Father Baelish, thrilled and excited by the secret they shared, proud and exhilarated by the knowledge that he had looked into her soul and seen her for who she was: A sinning saint, and a holy sinner. Breathlessly, she mouthed a word. “Amen.”

The priest nodded slightly in her direction, a sly smile on his lips.

A few days later Sansa slipped into the familiar darkness of the confessional, deeply contented. However unusual her life might be, she loved minute of it. She loved to hear the Father's sermons, finding herself in his preachings more and more. She loved her counseling sessions, where they danced their sinful dance to a heavenly tune. And she loved her weekly confession. It had become their unholy ritual, her scarlet temptation. Her downfall and her absolution.

Sansa went to her knees, a wicked smile on her lips. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

 


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hozier - Better Love

_The New York Times, May 19, 1933_

 

**STARK ACQUITTED OF ALL CHARGES**

 

Sansa Stark, better known as “The Lady”, was acquitted today of all seven charges brought against her in two indictments by the Attorney General of the state of New York. Miss Stark was on trial for eleven days, facing charges closely related to her shady ties to some of the country's most infamous racketeers and hoodlums, am ong them prominent names such as John Dillinger, George “Baby Face” Nelson and  Charles Arthur “Pretty Boy” Floyd.

The verdict, brought forth by the jury after nine hours and twenty-five minutes of deliberation, came as a surprise to the prosecution and undoubtedly most of the trial's spectators. Miss Stark smiled to herself as the verdict was read. Petyr “Mockingbird” Baelish, her partner and lover, seemed unimpressed by the trial's outcome. In an exclusive statement made to The New York Times' reporter shortly after the acquittal, he called the jury's finding “the only reasonable choice, given the overall situation”. He did not care to elaborate this curious choice of words.

Attorney General John J. Bennett, Jr has announced to file an appeal. Says Bennett, “The jury's findings are more than inconsistent with the proceedings. We can and will not rule out foul play at this moment and will examine the run of events closely.”

Miss Stark had already left the building at this point, getting into a waiting automobile with Mr. Baelish. The two drove off at full speed and were later seen dining at the Waldorf Astoria. Miss Stark wore an extravagant dark green gown accentuating her alluring silhouette and perfectly contrasting her auburn hair, her 3.5 carat Tiffany engagement ring, and, curiously, a gemstone rosary wound around her wrist. Mr. Baelish opted for an equally elegant tailcoat accompanied by stylish cufflinks. The couple shared a lavish meal and two bottles of champagne, no doubt to celebrate the trial's outcome. Exchanging affections throughout the night, Miss Stark and Mr. Baelish seemed undoubtedly in love. They later retreated to their private suite in the same building, Mr. Baelish's hand resting comfortably on the small of Miss Stark's back as he led her to the elevators, his young fiancee leaning in and whispering into his ear. He reacted with a sly smirk and whispered his response, whereupon a blushing Miss Stark smiled back as the elevator doors closed behind the lovers.

 

 


End file.
